Taming The Riddle
by youronlydoll
Summary: When the father of her illegitimate child, Tom Riddle, reappears, spoiling her new life with her husband, memories of a young womans past are uncovered and her future happiness is questioned as he reminds her of the love they used to and still share.
1. Prologue

_March 11__th__ 1946_

She dare not look at it.

She never believed anyone could be as scared as she was at that moment. And of a _baby_. Had she finally gone insane?

She glanced in the direction of the crib, but no sooner had she turned her head, she looked away. It really was a pitiful sight. She had expected to be overflowing with joy and simply dazed by the wonder that she had produced life from herself, at least, that was how her Mother had described it.

But no. She had barely even taken one look at it before she'd had it taken away. I say 'it', because, well, I am ashamed to say she did not even know the sex of the child. What an inspiring start to motherhood she had made!

But suppose you would like to know why it is that she came to be so frightened of this innocent baby? Well, his name was Tom.

She winced at the thought of him, as if someone had ripped open the partially healed wound cut jagged in her heart. Before the birth, she had not thought of him at all. In fact, she had almost forgotten him. _Almost_.

She had not always been afraid of her baby. At first, she was even excited, believe it or not. It was mid August when she realised she was pregnant. She had not long been married – only a few weeks. She couldn't work out how she could be pregnant after such a small time since their wedding night. Her second realisation was not quite as nice as the first. Tom. His name rang in her head for months. She did not tell anyone, not for a while anyway. And no one seemed to notice when she started showing at only 2 months. Of course, she was really more like 4 months pregnant, maybe more, she could not be sure. She knew it was Tom's baby. The moment she realised she was pregnant she thought of him. But she never admitted it to herself. How could she? She was married now. If people knew it was not David's she would be shunned. And she couldn't run off to Tom. Oh no, he could never know about the baby.

He didn't deserve to. Not after all that he did. He was not exactly what you could call a father figure as well, quite far from it in fact. No, that would not do. So through out the 9 months, she pretended the child was David's, even to the point where she began to believe it herself. She only remembered the idea when she gave birth.

The labour had been long and all she could think about was Tom. After so long of denying her feelings for him, she let go. Embraced them, you might say. She had shouted and cried for him, never once even whispering it out loud but screaming it over and over in her mind, and David had comforted her, putting it down to the pain. But really she was oblivious to it. Her whole body was numb, except for her heart. She felt as though it would explode with agony for the pain rushing through it. She wanted Tom, not David. David was not enough. He never would be. She had sent him away; she could not bear to look at his face when she had such feelings coursing through her. But it was not his inferiority that made her unable to tolerate his presence, however much she wished it was this, as then it would be his fault instead of hers. No, it was her deep, deep shame. If anything, she was the inferior one. She did not deserve him and all the love he felt for her at all.

But still she had been so angry at him, she should have been angry at Tom, for it was his fault she was in the situation she was. She couldn't help her anger towards David though. Even so, she thought, what had he ever done? Sweet David, he had never stopped loving her, not for many years. Unlike Tom, she thought bitterly. Not that it mattered, she told herself. She would have the perfect family now. Mother, Father and Baby would all be happy.

_But that is not what you want_, a little voice in the back of her mind retorted. It was that rebellious voice. The one she had come to hate in the last year. It was always there, slipping in comments and remarks about her 'perfect' life with David.

The thought of David led her back to the baby. As she hesitantly flicked her eyes towards it once more, she longed to see the glint of his golden hair a top the newborns head.

But to her dismay all that could be seen was the soft cream of the blanket in which it lay sleeping. She would have to move closer. Her mind, anxious yet brimming with curiosity, willed her to go to her child, but her body would not comply.

She slowly moved her eyes to settle on the figure in the crib. She did not have to look at the baby, she reassured herself, just at the blanket. Yes, she would concentrate on the blanket. With a little effort, her head soon followed but her body still stayed stubborn. This was certainly not new of her.

Eventually, it moved. Slowly but surely, like she were dragging a rather heavy load for she was wracked with fatigue after the long labour. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and was startled as her bare feet met the icy floor, waking her up a little.

Baby steps, she thought. But then nearly laughed aloud at the irony.

She cautiously approached the crib the nurse had placed near the foot of the bed so the baby was in stark view of it, hoping Mother and Baby might 'bond' after being forced in a room together.

She did not usually do as she was supposed to, but fortunately, and although unwillingly, she did.

One look at the baby and she felt almost giddy with emotion. She did not think one person could feel so much love. Let alone herself.

But there she was looking down at the beautiful new baby girl. _Her _baby girl.

At this thought she was suddenly flooded with an emotion so strong she almost wept. Her Mother had been right! She couldn't understand why she had sent her away and not dared to look at her. She gazed at her face and took in her small features.

She looked lost in the thick blanket. She looked just like a porcelain doll, with her lips a soft shade of rose pink. She gently drew the blanket away from her, her fingers delicately sweeping across the velvety cheek, so as not to wake her. But immediately she pulled her hand back, as if it had been red hot.

She had seen her hair. It was black.

Not dark brown, like hers. Not a golden blonde, like David's. Black…like Tom's.

Her worse fear was confirmed. It was not until now that she remembered why she had sent her away. She had wanted to drag out not seeing her baby for as long as possible, for she was afraid she would see Tom's face staring back at her. But there was no denying it now. The resemblance was unnatural. She could even spot the same slight curl in her hair that she had loved so much in Tom's.

Footsteps in the hall broke her from the daze that accompanied her new discovery. She looked up to see her family outside of the door to her room. This was the last thing she needed at this point. She smiled weakly in recognition of their presence and they entered. Her Mother came in first, ever one to lead. She looked as glamorous as ever, with a deep purple jacket brought in to accentuate her small waist by a thin black belt and a matching below the knee skirt. She had a similarly coloured hat perched delicately on her head, which she hastily pulled off as she rushed over to her daughter's side. Not a single hair had been brushed out of place by the rapid action, but this was not surprising of her Mother. She had always followed fashion religiously and had encouraged her daughter to follow suit, forever buying her new clothes. Her daughter loved this and, always wanting to please her Mother, wore them with pride.

Her Father was an utterly different matter. Or should I say step-Father. Her real Father had died when she was young and had quickly been replaced, but she had kept his surname. She did not remember a lot about him, but she did not want to forget him entirely. Her new Father was smart, strict and strongly principled. But even he could not undermine her Mother. Around her he was a totally different person, submissive and defenceless. That was most probably why her Mother had married him. That and the money, of course. He was superbly rich and had very high status in society. This was another reason why her secret could never be uncovered.

Thankfully, she would not see her new daughter for the entire time her family was here as they would fuss over her for hours.

But then, however, there was David. He followed in behind her parents, a large grin plastered across his face; it had been permanently there since the birth. He swiftly made his way across the room in what seemed like a single step and embraced his wife with strong arms. He was a large man for his age and she had always felt safe in his embrace, but today was different. She could not look him in the eye.

The rest of evening was spent fussing over the baby, who, no, she still hadn't named. She had had barely enough time to think and the thought of naming her new daughter had not even crossed her mind.

She had pushed that thought to the back of her mind completely. To name her would be to establish her as a real, living, breathing human being. The thought of it made her breathless, so much that David took her hand in concern. She squeezed it tightly back and smiled, explaining she was tired. It was the most important day of his life, aside from their wedding, so letting him know of her internal turmoil was the last thing she wanted to do. She did not want to spoil it or alarm him in any way. It was her problem, so only she would have to deal with it. Things had been that way her entire life, so why would it change now?

She took a deep breath and held herself upright, refreshing her mind with a stronger attitude. She had been through heartache and pain before and come out the other side, therefore this time she would too. And so with this new determined and stronger outlook, she would forget about Tom and get on with her life with David. She had a beautiful new baby now; she could not let her past experiences let her forget this. This was a new focus for her. Even if the child was not David's, they would be one big happy family, in their new home in the country, just like normal people.

Tom was long gone anyway, she would not have to see him again and surprisingly this thought made her happy. Perhaps all her emotions towards him had gone now. She had properly cried over him during the birth, years of pent up emotion and anger had been expelled and now, she felt serene, everything was calm in her mind. Not the calm before the storm, more like the calm after...when everything is clear again, fresh. She was ready for her new, happy life...with David, how it was supposed to be. Nobody had to even think about Tom again. Never again would she anyway.

Never, ever again.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

The morning of September 1st 1939 was the same as it was every year. The usual crowd was gathered on platform 9 ¾, plus a few new faces, rushing around making last minute preparations and saying last minute goodbyes, each person oblivious to what everyone else was doing. There was hair being brushed, faces being wiped and collars being straightened, before each child was kissed and embraced and sent to board the train which had been waiting in slumber beside them, gently billowing steam as the crowd got larger and larger.

It was organised chaos. At the front of the train, the station staff members were preparing for the long journey ahead, fuelling the fire with coal and polishing the sign on the side of the train which proudly read 'Hogwarts Express'. The carriages were overwhelmed with parents and children and trunks and owls and cats and all sorts of animals, shouting their farewells and arguing over who was going to sit where. And finally at the end of the train, luggage was being collected. Great hoards of heavy, brown leather trunks were being hauled aboard. Each one containing an entire years worth of life.

It was one big blur of hurrying, of cloaks and robes, of feathers and squawks and of tears and laughter.

Except for one thing. A girl. She stood stock still on the platform oblivious to the great hustle that surrounded her. Her parents stood behind her, smiling and directing encouraging words at her. After all, "this was a frightening day" for her. She "must be ever so nervous". It was "the day she grew up!" Or so her parents thought.

The girl, on the other hand, had rather different ideas. She stood, sizing up her surroundings, taking them in, examining each detail carefully. She had an air of arrogance about her, her chin kept high in the air, with only her eyes moving as the flitted from person to person. Nothing about the magical world attracted her particularly. The wizards and witches with their shabby attire, bumbling mannerisms and minds filled with nonsense. She and her family stood out like sore thumbs. They were all very smartly dressed, for one thing, and in muggle clothing too. Her step-father in a freshly pressed suit, her mother in her best floral dress, complete with matching heels and hat perched precisely on her head, and herself, dark hair neatly curled and pinned back on either side, wearing a dusty pink woollen coat buttoned to her neck to keep the cold out. Her black patent shoes had been specially polished for that day and the white socks she wore beneath could not have contrasted more with them.

She herself recognised this difference between her family and the families around her, and for once in her life she felt ever so slightly out of her depth. She had always lived a muggle life.

But then again, her Father had been a wizard and a strong and good man too. So that had to count for something. Perhaps that was why she had reluctantly agreed to go to Hogwarts, instead of the muggle boarding school her step-Father wished her to go to. There was no use dwelling on these past decisions now anyway, she was after all, just about to board the train to a new life. She had chosen this path – a magical life – so there were no second thoughts now.

She made her farewells, supposing that she would miss home and her family a little. It's familiarity – the warmth and the privacy. She also supposed that she would get nothing like that in a cold dark castle with hundreds of other students. Still, she was eager to see what it had to offer her. She always did like a challenge.

Making her way towards the many carriages, her curly hair bouncing and shoes softly tapping with each step, she sighed. This was it.

Pulling her luggage case along with her, she realised that she seemed to have a great number of bags compared to the others. Each one sporting a large tag inscribed artistically with the name:

_Constance Anne Scarlett_

She handed them to the luggage handler and stepped onto the train. It was like a step into the unknown. There was no going back. It was just her now. Alone. No, independent, that's how she saw it. And ready. Ready for anything.

* * *

A boy sat alone on the train. Only half an hour of its journey had been completed and he was already thoroughly bored. With one elbow propped up against the window pane, supporting his head, he observed how ironic the weather was – cold and dreary, much like how he was feeling. The prospect of starting an entirely different life had excited him, freedom, escape from the life he had previously lived. But the long journey ahead and being enclosed by hundreds of smiling, chattering school children, all surrounded by their friends, had oppressed any positive outlook he had had on the events to come.

Dressed in shabby, simple clothes, one could not help but overlook him however. He was smuggled in the corner of the compartment at the furthest point of the seat with no one but his thoughts for comfort and company. A book sat on his lap but he was not reading it, he simply held it in one hand.

He wasn't much to look at, his clothes were clearly second-hand, and perhaps one size too big for him, but he was clean and smart – it was obvious that he had tried to make the best of what he had. His hair was parted to one side and trimmed quite short, with no idea of style in mind but with the single intention of tidiness and practicality instead. But, not even this could suppress the curls which still held fast, falling partially over one side of his forehead.

However, something about the way he held himself, commanded attention, respect. He had an air of arrogance about him, as if the reason he was alone was because he deemed no one to be good enough to join him and as if the distance between him and the rest of the world he himself had intentionally created.

Buried deep within his own thoughts he barely noticed as a small girl, similar to him in age, smoothly slid open the door to the compartment. She stood in the doorway for a second, surveying the space, before turning to the boy.

"I'm lost." She stated. But received nothing in reply but a stony silence, the boy did not even blink but continue to stare solemnly out of the window. "I can't seem to find my room," she persisted.

A response. He turned, a frown forming slightly, creasing his pale skin, a single line running down his forehead. "Room?" he repeated, with barely a hint of inquisition in his voice, more of a statement than a question.

Putting on her most polite tone, she replied: "Yes, my room, my compartment. Do you know where it is? My step-Father assured me there was some kind of first-class section, but I can not seem to find it…Your assistance would be most helpful." He scoffed and turned back to the window. "Well, I suppose I will have to sit in here then." She returned, sitting down on seat opposite him and placing her small bag next to her. She had judged by his previous replies that he would not like his – that he wished to be left alone. It certainly got his attention.

"Although, it isn't much to look at." At first, it appeared that she was referring to the compartment, but her tone had changed as she had drawn closer to him, inspecting him, the expression on her face told him otherwise. She looked at him pointedly as she said it, eyeing up his clothes. Her tone was aloof, smug.

Anger bubbled inside of him, but he repressed it. An anticlimactic silence filled the space between them, but an unspoken battle began to rage inside the boys head. Who was she to anger him? To dare say anything against him? She looked and acted like a muggle. He was disgusted. He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled the breath he had been holding in one, long sigh. He did not want her to see that a mere half-blood could move him to such strong emotions.

The book on his lap dropped to the floor with a thump as all the muscles in his body tensed. The sudden, loud noise released some pent up rage for him and broke the tension between them for an instant. But he remained studying the window.

Feeling scorned at being dropped, the girl was eager to continue conversing with him and earn back her pride. Her eyes went to the book lying solid on the floor between their feet, she slowly picked it up. Studying the bind, she saw that it was a rather old book that she recognised from her father's vast collection of the author's works.

"_A History of the Dark Arts_," She dictated. "Interesting, you don't look like the sort of person that reads Nanton." She said before realising how much it had sounded like conversation. She added: "It astonishes me that you can even afford them, judging by the rest of you."

The boy gritted his teeth. Ignoring the insult and suppressing his own curiousness, surprise even, in regards to the fact that she had recognised, perhaps even read, the book he possessed, he retorted:

"If you are going to sit here, you would do well to keep quiet."

He had moved little as he said it; in fact he had not even looked at her. The detachment of his actions and the shortness of his manner did nothing to subdue her though; in fact, it riled her, excited her, making her even more willing to distress him further.

"And who are you to tell me what to do?" Her voice was calm, but dangerous, echoing his. "I am not afraid of little orphan boys, who don't even have two pennies to rub together." The second part she said with more venom. The assumption she had made was spot on though. He recoiled. So quickly that she barely saw it. But she had hit a nerve.

His hands shook, anger coursing through them. She watched with a small smirk as the skin of his pale face flushed pink, red, spreading outwards from his cheeks. One hand hovered over the pocket containing his wand.

A few moments passed. Seconds went by at the pace of hours. Everything was suspended, floating. And then in one swift motion he had reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand. He channelled every ounce of anger he had into it, it felt what he felt, an extension of his being. But her reaction was superb. Reflexes sharp, she caught the arm holding the wand in front of her and gripped it tight. His wand pointed menacingly at her, she could almost feel the power radiating from it. Her strength was surprising. He growled in response, he could not move. With his free hand he grabbed forward, he caught her shoulder and pushed her back onto her seat, she still did not let go. He held her against the back of the seat using his forearm, pushing it against her chest. She dug her nails in to his wrist in reply, but he was relentless. They stared at each other for a moment. Both unyielding, uncompromising, both equally strong and persistent. The power struggle continued until the girl broke the silence.

"Get off of me! Now."

"No," the boy replied. "Not until you return my wand."

"So that you can hex me? Never! I'm not stupid, orphan." Another growl was produced from the boy. At this moment she could not help to be a little afraid. For an 11 year old, malnourished boy, he was still big. At least, bigger than her petite form. This brief moment of fear caused her to lessen her grip on his arm. He instantly took the opportunity to twist it away, repositioning his wand so it grazed the side of her cheek.

"Like I said," He hissed, face inches away from hers. "You'd do well to keep quiet."

The rest of the train journey passed with few interactions between the couple. As they approached the end, each left to change into their robes, the difference in their class and wealth disappearing with their previous clothing, and so their reason to fight did too. Not that this would stop them in any way. As the girl entered the compartment once more, the pair exchanged glances. Equal now.

As the girl sat back down, smoothing her robes down, there was a strange moment of calm, surrender. He turned to watch her as she settled, she caught his eye once more and held it. Her face was soft, but his was not, it was suspicious. He hoped she did not think that they would now be friends.

"What is your name?" She asked her voice gentle. His barriers did not fall, he maintained his harsh front. But he still answered, curtly, blunt:

"Tom." He then pulled his face away from her gaze and back to the direction of the window. "Tom Riddle." He finished, before closing his shell completely.

"My name is Constance." He made no response, but kept his eyes set on the moving landscape before him, immovable, absolute. Yet, he heard her. The exchange was not surrender or retreat. More a cease fire, a momentary peace. For now.


End file.
